


To Whom It May Concern

by Trismegistus (Lebateleur)



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Devotion, M/M, Master/Servant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:42:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6570256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lebateleur/pseuds/Trismegistus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Csevet Aisava made a simple mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Whom It May Concern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



Csevet’s appearance outside his bedchamber was not unexpected. Still, he winced at the sound of his secretary’s voice greeting Telimezh in the anteroom. He had been worrying at the sleeve of his robes since receiving his private correspondence earlier that evening, and the intricately embroidered hem was now a tangle of unraveled thread.

He stilled his hands in his lap with great effort. The tattered hem he could hide beneath the edge of the table, but there would be no undoing the harm he’d cause if he were to misspeak, or allow the tilt of his ears to betray him.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he turned to Kiru and found her regarding him evenly from her post beside the door. “Mer Aisava, your Serenity.”

“We will receive him,” he said, heartened that his voice had betrayed nothing. Kiru nodded and opened the door.

“Serenity.” Csevet advanced several paces into the room and bowed. He stopped well short of the small writing desk at which Maia sat, and a look passed between his nohecharei as they took note of Csevet’s reticence. “We apologize for the lateness of the hour.”

A wry smile crossed Maia’s face. “As we disturb you frequently at all hours of the day and night, we feel we would have little ground for complaint should we wish to criticize your calling upon us now.”

An answering smile broke across Csevet’s face and his ears dipped slightly in acknowledgment. “We are at your service always, Serenity.”

The pulse of blood through Maia’s veins slowed toward something approaching a normal pace. “What matter brings you here tonight?” 

“Serenity,” said Csevet after a moment, and they both pretended not to notice the slight twitch of his ears that sent their silver rings chiming. “We wonder if our letter to Mer Khilevet wasn’t accidentally mixed in with your correspondence.”

“Mer Khilevet? We know of no such person.”

Csevet’s brow knit. “He is a courier in Dachensol Habrobar’s service.”

And Csevet’s friend. Maia had not learned his name the day his signet had been delivered, nor thought to ask it of Csevet afterward. A memory of their shared laughter flitted through his thoughts, but there was little time to dwell on it. The crucial moment had arrived.

“We did receive a piece of unfamiliar correspondence,” he said, trying desperately for nonchalance as he pretended to shuffle through the papers on his desk. “Ah, here it is. 

“We meant to inquire of it to you tomorrow, in the event we did not manage to read it tonight,” he said, his tone apologetic as though finding the time to address all the day’s correspondence were indeed his only care, and felt profoundly guilty at the expression of relief that washed over Csevet’s face as he crossed to Maia and accepted the letter. 

“Thank you, Serenity. We will be certain not to make such an inexcusable error again.” 

“Csevet,” he said, and his exasperation was real enough. “We count ourselves blessed indeed that one misdirected letter is all the fault we have ever found in you.”

There was real warmth in Csevet’s smile and bow. “Good evening, Serenity,” he said, and took his leave of Maia as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

But though Maia had not imagined it would be so, the burden on his own shoulders only increased in reward for his troubles. He would have considered it a punishment well deserved, save for the fact that he would never have opened the letter had he realized it was not meant for him. Csevet managed his affairs so carefully he had never thought anything could slip through unintended. And the handwriting on the envelope was clearly Csevet’s. Maia had opened it automatically, barely noting the unfamiliar name penned carefully across its back. 

It had been immediately apparent that the letter had not been meant for him. He had continued to read anyway. And then he had been terrified lest knowledge of its contents damage the camaraderie between him and his secretary. 

Maia had spent the next few hours in a trance, trying to work out what he would say to Csevet when he came to retrieve the letter. 

For he would come. Of that, Maia was certain. He was equally certain that Csevet would acknowledge that he was its author. Another might have tried to dissemble, claiming it a forgery by a rival seeking to sow discord, or a bored courtier hoping to create an amusing scandal within the Emperor’s inner circle, but Csevet would not stoop to such self-serving falsehood.

And yet, that did not mean Maia was bound to the same standard. He knew his secretary’s handwriting as well as his own, and Csevet would see through any attempt to plead ignorance of the letter’s authorship. But what if he pretended he had never read it at all?

The ruse had worked. And Csevet had obviously been only too glad put the matter firmly out of mind. 

Maia wished he could too. But thoughts of the letter were all but driving him to distraction.

Some evenings later, once he had retired to his bedchamber and the moon had risen above the walls of the Untheileian, Maia withdrew the copy he'd made of the letter from his bedclothes. He listened carefully for any creak of the floorboards or telltale rustle from his nohecharis, but none came. He had waited for this night, when Telimezh would stand guard in his bedchamber, to look at it once more for precisely that reason. 

Telimezh was loyal and executed his duties with dedication, and of Maia’s four nohecharei, he had proved the most willing to let his emperor work through his troubles privately unless asked directly for his thoughts. Maia was most grateful for that reticence tonight.

He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dimness, then unfolded the letter and with a flick of the ears, began to read. Csevet’s tone was familiar and intimate in a way it had never been in Maia’s presence. It was clear he was not only friends, but the best of friends with Mer Khilevet, a revelation that knotted Maia’s insides with jealousy, though he tried not to let it. 

His eyes moved restlessly down the page. After the obligatory salutations, Csevet dispensed with formality entirely, and the letter increasingly took on the tone of a confession. And as to that which Csevet confessed, had the handwriting on the original not so obviously been his secretary’s, Maia could hardly have believed it to come from his hand at all. 

_…even pretend myself fit for my duties, when the mere thought of his skin drives me to distraction…_

From the wording, it was clearly not the first time that Csevet had sung such praises to Mer Khilevet. 

Had Csevet dwelled simply on the man’s appearance, Maia thought he could have dismissed his infatuation easily enough. But Csevet moved on to praise the man’s sweetness, and his wisdom. That his secretary was marnis had of course taken him by surprise. That first evening, he had even laid the letter down midway through to consider whether the fact bothered him. He had quickly found that it did not. 

What did trouble him was that the court was crawling with gossips, many of whom would be only too happy to attack Maia through the person of his secretary. For all that Maia did not care—truly, did not—that someone had won Csevet’s affections, he did not feel he could idly sit by while his good name and reputation were torn to tatters because of it. 

It would have been easier, Maia thought, if Csevet’s infatuation had left him unable to properly discharge his duties to Maia. But Csevet continued to serve him with the same precision and perspicacity as ever. 

Even still, he had considered taking Csevet aside more than once as he lay awake late into the night, and pleading with him to consider setting aside his feelings, one-sided though they evidently were, before they brought him to harm. But it seemed an ill use of his imperial prerogative, when Csevet was so clearly besotted. And there was this as well: _…last Midsummer’s Ball, I felt I should go mad unless I confessed my heart to him. But I dared not, for my loyalty must ever be to the emperor, and not to him._

That Csevet had not forgotten his obligations to Maia, even while so enraptured, went some way toward soothing Maia’s wistful heart. He himself had once harbored dreams of someday feeling such affection for another, but those had ended along with his relegation to Edonomee. An emperor could neither hope nor afford to form such personal bonds with anyone. He felt the flattery, respect, and fear he could command instead to be pale substitutes by comparison. 

It was also some small consolation that Csevet so frankly acknowledged his attraction not just to a man, but one of goblin extraction. Though there were fewer by the day who openly attacked Maia’s mixed parentage, he still felt himself all to frequently to be dark and meanly made beside his pedigreed elven courtiers. Nearly a year into his reign, he was still glad of every small indication that not everyone thought his mixed birth left him unfit to rule. 

He wondered if Csevet had never shared the common low opinion of goblins, or if not, when his views had changed, as Maia’s were coming to do in regard to marnei as he encountered more of them. He wondered how he compared to the one who had so captured Csevet’s affections. He wondered how his secretary had come to know the man in the first place.

But Maia knew nothing of Csevet’s life beyond the walls of the Untheileian. Indeed, he could hardly credit the idea of Csevet having one, for his secretary was a near-constant presence in his life from the time his edocharei dressed him in the morning until he retired to his private chambers to rest. Only his nohecharei spent more time at his side.

He wondered endlessly who the man could be, and how he might find out. 

His chance came suddenly, after the conclusion of a seemingly endless debate between the Witness for the Universities and the Witness for the Treasury, who had argued long into the afternoon on the advisability of lowering wool subsidies to the shepherd villages of Thu-Tetar. He turned to make some small request of his secretary, and found he was not there. 

Scanning the room, he located Csevet by the servant’s doorway, deep in discussion with Mer Khilevet and looking as stricken by what he’d just been forced to sit through as Maia was. He rose and, falling into step beside his chancellor, asked, “What can you tell us of Mer Khilevet?”

Lord Berenar’s eyebrows rose. “You know him, Serenity?”

“By name only,” he demurred. 

Lord Berenar considered. “We too know him mainly by reputation. He was adopted into Court during your father’s reign, as a favor for having saved some foolish courtier’s life. We were not privy to the details,” he added, then continued when Maia indicated it mattered not. “Many would consider a goblin owed a debt of gratitude by an elf criminal to begin with, but Mer Khilevet does not seem to have helped his own cause in finding acceptance at Court. He was thought to be too forthright in his opinions, and to unwilling to apologize for his heritage.”

“We imagine that many considered the latter to be the far more serious offense,” Maia said mildly.

“Quite,” said Berenar, a corner of his mouth twitching.

“But how did he come to serve Dachensol Habrobar?”

“We believe it was worked out as some sort of compromise. The position of courier to the imperial signet maker could be said to carry a certain prestige.”

“And a courier is nevertheless just a courier,” Maia concluded. 

Berenar tilted his head.

“But who ultimately had the better end of the bargain?”

“Dachensol Habrobar, most likely. We have never known him to be a poor judge of ability. Or character. The same can be said of your secretary.” 

They were drawing closer to where Csevet and Khilevet stood by the door; Maia would have to conclude the conversation in short order. “Has Csevet many other goblin companions?”

Lord Berenar cast him a look from the corner of his eye. “None of whom we are aware, Serenity. Indeed, that he has maintained his friendship with Mer Khilevet is deemed quite scandalous in some quarters, now that Mer Aisava is your Serenity’s secretary, and no longer _just_ a courier."

“We think such views ridiculous,” said Maia, because he had to say something, or Berenar might see how his heart was soaring.

“As do we,” said Berenar.

Later that evening, after he had dismissed his edocharei and only Cala remained in his chambers, Maia reread the letter and then attempted to pen his own. He quickly found he lacked Csevet’s talent for making one thing seem another, or even plainly setting down his thoughts. Indeed, he had always had Csevet at his side to take what he wished to say and tell him how to say it properly. 

In the end, he decided on simplicity. _Please seek us out tonight in the Mich’othasmeire._

He paused, then penned hastily beneath: _We apologize for our subterfuge in sending you this letter under Mer Khilevet’s name. But we remember well your admonition to assume all our correspondence is opened._

The next morning, Maia dropped the letter into the slot for the public pneumatic tubes on his way to the Verven'theileian. He was gambling – that the letter would reach Csevet that very day, that Csevet would know his handwriting as he had known his secretary’s, that of the Alcethmeret’s myriad correspondence, a letter from a lowly goblin courier would not seem worth intercepting.

That he had misinterpreted Csevet’s letter prior to his conversation with Berenar, and understood it correctly afterward.

Maia proceeded to spend the entire day on tenterhooks. About him, the gears of the Untheileneise Court ground on much as always. He granted audiences and supped with his courtiers. He attended to the arguments of the Corazhas and mediated when he must. He discussed his correspondence with Csevet, deciding which entreaties to answer and which to set aside. Nothing in his secretary’s expression or tone indicated that anything was out of the ordinary. 

That evening, he met Vedero to hear from her the latest discoveries in the natural sciences and did not remember a word. And then he took his evening tea and bathed, and it was time.

“Our thoughts this evening are not entirely quiet,” he announced after his edocharei had left his chambers, and the statement was true enough. “We wish to spend time in meditation in the Mich’othasmeire.” Cala blinked and he thought Beshelar gave him a searching look, but otherwise neither of his nohecharei indicated that they found anything unusual about his request.

The Mich’othasmeire was indeed beautiful bathed in the light of the candles he’d set in its niches. Without their calming glow, Maia thought he might have come undone entirely as he sat and pretended to follow his breathing. If the letter had never arrived, or if Csevet had received it but chose to—

“Serenity?” Csevet’s voice sounded like thunder in the chamber, or perhaps only to Maia’s stretched nerves. He opened his eyes and rose, conscious of his nohecharei attempting to fade discreetly into the shadows.

“We received your summons; what is it that you require of us?” His voice was as bland and even as ever. Maia envied his composure. He felt he had none left himself.

“We read your letter to Mer Khilevet.” He swallowed and forged on before the last of his resolve evaporated. “Were we incorrect in assuming you wrote to him of us?”

Csevet’s reaction was immediate, and disastrous. He fell to the floor so quickly Maia thought him overcome by some fit. 

“Forgive us, Serenity,” he gasped. His ears were pressed flat to his head, and the blood had drained so completely from his face as to turn his lips blue. 

“Forgive you—for what?”

Even from this distance, Maia could see the muscles of Csevet’s neck tighten further, as though he meant to push his forehead through the floor into the very bedrock itself.

“Serenity, I will leave your court, I will never trouble you again so long as you live. Just please—“

“Please what? Csevet, what has come over—”

“Don’t despise us,” said Csevet so quietly Maia barely heard him.

“Despise you?” Maia’s mouth worked. Finally, he dropped all attempts at formality, or composure. “How could I despise you? I can barely believe you hold me in such regard, let alone that you... I was so happy when I realized otherwise. And I don’t deserve it.”

When Csevet was finally able to raise his head to look at Maia, his eyes were shining.

**Author's Note:**

> Your author and artist prompts were so lovely I had to use them both!


End file.
